290 The IVild Sheep of the Sierra. 



among loose, disintegrating rock-chips and sand, upon some sunny 

 spot commanding a good outlook and partially sheltered from the 

 winds that sweep those lofty peaks almost without intermission. 

 Such is the cradle of the little mountaineer, aloft in the very sky ; 

 rocked in storms, curtained in clouds, sleeping in thin, icy air ; 

 but, wrapped in his hairy coat, and nourished by a strong, warm 

 mother, defended from the talons of the eagle and teeth of the sly 

 coyote, the bonnie lamb grows apace. He soon learns to nibble the 

 tufted rock-grasses and leaves of the white spiraea ; his horns 

 begin to shoot, and before summer is done he is strong and agile, 

 and goes forth with the flock, watched by the same divine love 

 that tends the more helpless human lamb in its warm cradle by the 

 fireside. 



Nothing is more commonly remarked by noisy, dusty trail- 

 travelers in the high Sierra than the want of animal life — no birds, 

 no deer, no squirrels. But if such could only go away quietly into 

 the wilderness, sauntering afoot with natural deliberation, they would 

 soon learn that these mountain mansions are not without inhabitants, 

 many of whom, confiding and gentle, would not try to shun their 

 acquaintance. 



In the fall of 1873, I was tracing the South Fork of the San 

 Joaquin up its wild canon to its farthest glacier fountains. It was 

 the season of Alpine Indian summer. The sun beamed lovingly; 

 the squirrels were nutting in the pine-trees, butterflies hovered about 

 the last of the golden-rods, willow and maple thickets were yellow, 

 the meadows were brown, and the whole sunny, mellow landscape 

 glowed like a countenance with the deepest and sweetest repose. 

 On my way over the shining, glacier-polished rocks along the foam- 

 ing river, I came to an expanded portion of the canon, about two 

 miles long and half a mile wide, inclosed with picturesque granite 

 walls, like those of Yosemite Valley, the river pouring its crystal 

 floods through garden, meadow, and grove in many a sun-spangled 

 curve. 



This hidden Yosemite was full of wild life. Deer, with their 

 supple, well-grown fawns, bounded from thicket to thicket as I 

 advanced. Grouse kept rising from the brown grass with a great 

 whirring of wings, and, alighting on low branches of pine or poplar, 

 allowed a near approach, as if pleased to be observed. Farther on, 



